Tempest
by snarechan
Summary: The first World War presented the chance, but flying was what brought them together.
1. Jackpot

Tempest

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Germany/America  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Romance/Humor/Adventure  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, interpreting history  
**Status**: Continuation, 1/5  
**Summary**: The first World War presented the chance, but flying was what brought them together.

**Notes**: It's finally happened. I've written Hetalia fanfic, and for the kink meme on LJ to boot. The request was for some Red Baron!Germany and Ace Pilot!America, which called to me in a manner that I couldn't resist. Whoever you are anon-requester, you rock for coming up with this prompt!

A round of applause goes to Momo for being my go-to person on the Hetalia fandom and Keppiehed for beta reading. You guys are the bestest and both your input made this story forever better. ;~; Any remaining boo-boos are my own and I'll thank you for pointing them out if discovered!

**Disclaimer**: I dun own Axis Powers Hetalia; wish I did like everyone else. They should put APH in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Prologue –

The year was 1918, and most individuals were engaged in the trenches of Europe. But behind Allied lines was an airfield** – **one of the first of its kind to be utilized. A hangar that resembled an enlarged shack resided on the far side of the open space, a single light visible from the interior. Where most soldiers and personnel were sleeping off the effects of the war, three men remained awake. They were sitting on assorted crates with a rickety table in the center.

"What do you know about the Red Knight?" asked the youngest in the gathering, America, who was shuffling an aged and dirty deck of playing cards.

The set may have warranted disposal, lest a player try to cheat by memorizing a particular blood stain, tea cup ring or speck of filth forever left on the stock, but the cards were beyond even that. Corners were softened and torn to the numbers, and the discoloration combined with the worn prints on both sides made them indistinguishable in a way that would benefit those who used this deck.

His fingers expertly cut and re-cut the pile, mixing the cards without needing to look. This allowed him to concentrate on the other two individuals keeping him company this and the last several rounds: England, whose eyebrows threatened to consume his irises as they cinched down into a customary glower at the question, and France, his amused expression unwavering enough to go without disturbing the stub of a cigarette he was working. It was his last ration, unless he won more tonight. Personally, America was aiming for the chocolate.

"The Red Knight?" France asked.

"Yeah, you know – The Red Baron. Got anything on the guy?"

"Ah, le Petit Rouge, yes," France said, chuckling. "Indeed, we know of _him._"

"Bloody Baron," England said, and followed up his muttering with a deep swallow of his grog. It was his seventh shot, but the night was still young. He'd reach his customary alcohol intake shortly. "Pain in the arse if ever there was one. Roams the skies like a mongrel in that outlandish pile of rubbish he calls an aeroplane. Well, I tell you, I've shown _him_ what's what."

"Remind me, chéri_,_ was that _before_ he shot you down in November of 1916, or was it April of 1917?"

"Sod off! You were his first victim, so keep your opinions to yourself," he was swift to retort. "I've downed the kraut, where none of you lot have."

France tsked at the man's response, but didn't seem fazed by the insulting reminder.

"So you've both seen him in combat firsthand?"

"No shit, America. Anyone who's flown the Western Front has been confronted by him and his Flying Circus. Now _deal_ already."

America did, fingers flicking the cards to their holders in rapid succession and grinning the entire time. There was a short, contemplative silence that followed as the three players analyzed their given hands and made their respective bets.

"I haven't, not yet," America started, clarifying his meaning right after. "Crossed hairs with him, I mean. You know what I think?"

"Nobody cares," England stated, the Briton pouring himself two more shots and bringing his count up to nine. "Not that it will stop you from telling us."

France at least pretended to be interested. His lips curled around the tail end of his smoke at America to say he held his attention, but the fact that his eyes skimmed his cards while arranging them stated otherwise as he said, "Come now, speak for yourself. _I _am curious, America."

"I think he's the best."

England sputtered into his tenth (or eleventh?) drink of grog, expression livid. Their other companion took the announcement in stride, only pausing as he was forced to snuff out the tiny remains of his cigarette. The card game they had been playing was almost forgotten in the wake of England's next comment.

"What could _possibly_ inspire such praise, from a git like you, nonetheless?" he demanded, slamming his glass on the table sharply enough to shake loose the scattered contents and spill diluted liquor over the maps and photo surveillance they were playing on top of. "Come on, out with it!"

"Like I said, I haven't met him yet. When I do, he won't be the best anymore."

While England groaned and rolled his eyes – the green of them nearly disappearing into the hairs of his eyebrows – France chuckled in his stead, evidently thinking the declaration absurd.

"Of course, that is so like your usual way. When should we expect you to confront le Diable Rouge?"

Before America could respond, England interjected.

"Not bloody _ever_, I'd say! That hun is my responsibility – and I intend on shooting him out of the sky myself," he yelled, forgoing the shot glass to drink directly from the bottle. It was getting close to empty. "You stay far away from him and leave his disposal to me, understand? None of that heroic bull-"

Midsentence, he collapsed face-first onto the table's surface, asleep, bottle still grasped in one hand and his cards in the other.

"We got through seven rounds this time," America noted.

"Almost a new record for us," France said, grabbing and turning England's palm so he could glance at the man's cards. "Poor thing is exhausted from- Ah! I am all in."

He shoved his offerings into the center, but America laughed and shook his head. He took a bar of chocolate and a single carton of cigarettes, and left the rest for France to sort through.

"Have at it. Been a long day for you, too."

"Merci. Always so generous," he said, gratefully lighting up one of the new smokes he'd procured right off. "So you desire to contend with that particular alleyman? It will be no fun for you, this I can guarantee. And England will not be pleased."

Not that France sounded as if he minded.

"He'll thank me for the break later," America told him. He gathered up their playing cards, shuffling, and shuffling, and shuffling them into mixed order. When he placed the pile flat on the table, face up, the ace of hearts was stationed on top.

"You'll all be thanking me when I'm finished with Germany."

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Notes**: Links to sources of information are not provided here because this place won't let me link out, so if you're curious you'll have to find them on my LJ posts. You can find it here on my profile, under 'Homepage'.

(1) French 101: Chéri – love and merci – thank you.

(2) British 101: Bloody – fucking, arse – ass, sod off – fuck off, and git – idiot/moron.

(3) Grog: Diluted liquor.

(4) November 1917 refers to the 23rd, when Manfred von Richthofen downed British flying ace Lanoe Hawker, who was even revered by the Baron.

(5) April 1917 is "Bloody April". British forces suffered severe aircraft losses during that month. Manfred von Richthofen downed 22 aircraft alone.

(6) Though not credited with the kill, Manfred von Richthofen first shot down a French Farman aircraft. Sucks to be Francis.

(7) The Flying Circus: Jagdgeschwader 1, the fighter squadron that Manfred von Richthofen headed.

(8) Hun, kraut, and alleyman: All derogatory terms for German soldiers.

(9) Le Diable Rouge (Red Devil), le Petit Rouge (Little Red), the Red Knight and the Red Baron were all nicknames given to Manfred von Richthofen.


	2. Strange Encounters

Tempest

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Germany/America  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Romance/Humor/Adventure  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, interpreting history  
**Status**: Continuation, 2/5  
**Summary**: The first World War presented the chance, but flying was what brought them together.

**Notes**: A quick message on America in this story: I couldn't pick one individual for him to be based on during the course of this story, so I cheated. There were twenty-eight recorded American flying aces and ideally I would have tried to include parts of them all, but this story wasn't long enough, so I only reached eight. Information on which eight will appear at the bottom of the chapters whenever inspiration was taken.

I also want to say thank you to everyone who's reviewed! You're all super sweet and made me feel welcome to this new collective. ;) I hope my writing continues to meet expectations! Also, a personal piece of gratitude goes to Momo for reading every chapter and nit-picking characterization and language, and Keppiehed, for being a complete godsend of a beta reader. Chickas, I'd be lost without you!

**Disclaimer**: I dun own Axis Powers Hetalia; wish I did like everyone else. They should put APH in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter 1 –

The landing field was quiet that early morning. A slight chill hung in the air, but the cold was already decapitated by the rising of the sun as it turned the sky lavender beyond the trees. This was when Germany exited his tent and ventured toward the straight row of Fatherland aircraft. He would gaze at each individual plane, counting them and memorizing the different colors adorning the wood as he passed. At the end resided a red Fokker Dr. I dreidecker.

That one was his, and he would then go about inspecting it – the third or fourth time in twenty-four hours. He'd check the engine, controls, wings, tail… Germany went over every detail, reveling in the peace that methodical tasks and the open, calm air brought him, until-

"Hey, West!" Prussia, his brother, called, almost causing Germany's head to collide with the underside of one of the wings in surprise. Despite predicting the man's inevitable appearance, he remained easy to sneak up on. Prussia had been assigned to his Luftstreitkräfte not too long ago and made certain that he was a nuisance. If he wasn't taking risks or badgering the enemy while flying, he was doing it to Germany when both feet were planted on the earth.

"Prussia," he said in greeting, though he was stiff in comparison to the other man's exuberant demeanor.

Accustomed to that sort of welcome, his brother ignored it and coiled an arm around Germany's shoulders to yank them close together. Prussia talked as if in a conspirative whisper, which was short of a shout for him.

"So I heard you were under orders from the boss not to fly. That true?"

Germany hesitated from touching the white bandages wrapped around his head before responding, "Not…precisely. It was suggested that I take it easy. I was thinking of doing some practice runs today."

"Awesome," Prussia said, laughing and letting him go so he could give him a pat on the back. "That's what I expect to hear! You want me to get you started?"

"If you could."

As Prussia walked to the front, Germany hoisted himself up near the cockpit and reached inside for his gear, adorning the thick jacket over his Ulanka uniform with a scarf, goggles and leather flying helmet. Once he was sure the garments were secure and wouldn't fall off during mid-flight, he slipped inside and prepared for takeoff.

"Ready?" called his brother after enough time had passed. Germany gave him the signal and Prussia spun the propeller once, twice, and then, "Contact!" as the blades twirled under their own power and the engine roared to life.

With practiced ease he guided the airplane across the open field and took to the sky, climbing over trees and gaining altitude. He didn't even off until around three-thousand and forty-eight meters, the wind kicking like a horse and freezing the skin across his face that wasn't protected by the scarf or goggles. This didn't bother him, as he was long accustomed to the temperatures at this altitude, and Germany gradually allowed himself to survey the world floating by below.

His flying squadron's distance from the trenches was apparent as he spotted untouched green and clear waters for several miles. That didn't indicate it was free of combat, as he was reminded while checking his six an hour later; when he glanced past his right shoulder, the German spotted a Sopwith Camel approaching from behind.

_Who would be so foolish as to willingly cross into our territory alone?_ Germany thought, annoyed and a little shocked. This was not what he'd predicted to find on his outing, but he didn't permit the unexpected confrontation to throw him into a panic.

There remained some distance between him and the enemy fighter, and he utilized this fact to his advantage by guiding his Fokker to flip in the air. He wanted the sun at his back, and as soon as his aircraft righted itself, the rest of the sun rose fully, engulfing him in brightness and obscuring him from view. The tactic aided him as it had in the past, allowing him to get a dive in at the unsuspecting pilot.

At fifty meters he opened fire, shooting from one of his machine guns. Germany hit the broadside of his mark, but not as much as he'd hoped. Only two of the many shots made contact, the rest striking nothing as the Camel took a fast right and out of range of his weapons. He wasn't able to get a bead on them for several drawn out moments; whenever he got close, an aerobatic move saved the enemy fighter pilot from a bullet to the engine or wing. He gritted his teeth as the enemy fighter seemed intent on showing off more than battling.

In a daring maneuver that Germany had never witnessed, during one of his dives that encroached them closer together, the other pilot let him overshoot and lagged until the enemy aircraft was flying _directly_ under him – out of sight. He strained to lean far enough over the side without losing control of his ride, but glimpsed a hint of the opposing aircraft. Though Germany was loathe to attempt it, he retained low altitude and flew straight for a line of trees, intending to flush him out. He'd prefer risking branches than the other pilot's skill at not having their two planes collide top-to-bottom.

The Camel hearkened to his at the last minute, the pilot opening fire on him not from the mounted Vickers machine guns, but from a handheld weapon that unleashed a barrage of bullets that grazed Germany more than once. He tried to break off course, uncomfortable at the close proximity of their airplanes, and felt another bullet hit close to his upper arm.

He pulled on his control stick and the Fokker rose at a sharp angle. As he predicted, the enemy tried to follow right after him, but Germany knew of the other plane's limitations – it could not safely handle such tight moves at an elevation exceeding three-thousand and fifty-seven meters. The air was thin and Germany was starting to lose all feeling in his exposed skin when the plane behind him sounded as if it was stalling. That's when he struck. He repositioned and blasted holes into the Sopwith Camel until bits blew off entirely.

Germany stopped at confirming that it could no longer fight back and was willing to leave matters be, but on his return path a thump and then a _crack_ resounded as, of all things, the enemy pilot parachuted onto his top wing. The wooden panels couldn't handle the additional stress of a human body collapsing on it and split, sending Germany's Fokker into a dead drop that wasn't aided by the parachute getting caught in his propellers, tangling them.

"What are you _doing_, you bastard?" he yelled in his native tongue, frantic as his aircraft went into freefall. He had to blindly try and land what was left of it.

The aircraft crashed, the bottom of the fuselage tearing apart as the landing gear snapped off, sending them straight into the tree line. The front end shattered as it connected hard with a trunk, causing Germany's already injured head to smash into the rim of his cockpit. He saw dancing beer mugs as his head bled – from his previous injury re-opening, a new cut or both.

A loud crash alerted him to movement nearby and in a daze he lifted his head to see what it was. Red framed both sides of his vision, but he could still make out the sight of the enemy pilot falling from where he'd clung to the remains of the top wing as he cut himself free from the parachute straps. He landed butt-first and appeared as disorientated as Germany was, shaky hands wrenching the leather flying helmet off to reveal a shock of wild blond hair and blue eyes behind dark-framed glasses.

"What a lollapalooza of a dogfight!" the man said, in a blatantly Sammy accent, if the American idioms hadn't been clue enough of his heritage. "I mean…_I mean_, what a humdinger! We totally have to do that again; it was awesome!

Germany groaned, letting his forehead hit the nearest surface. He'd been taken down by another Prussia, and he wasn't sure what to think of that, so he closed his eyes and didn't bother.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Notes**:

(1) German 101: Dreidecker – triplane.

(2) American 101: Lollapalooza and humdinger – something excellent, outstanding. 1900's.

(3) Luftstreitkräfte – The Imperial German Army Air Force of World War I.

(4) On July 6, 1917, Manfred von Richthofen was wounded in the head during combat. This injury, while not fatal, permanently affected his health and flying career for the rest of his life.

(5) The Ulanka uniform was worn by Ulanen soldiers, which included Prussians/Germans. The u must stand for UNF, 'cause damn, that's some nice piece of military dress.

(6) 3,048 meters = 10,000 feet and 3,657 meters = 12,000 feet.

(7) Alfred's airplane, the Sopwith Camel, is based on American flying ace Field Eugene Kindley's. He was the same airman who allegedly shot down Manfred von Richthofen's brother, Lothar von Richthofen – who I envision Prussia to parallel.

(8) Sammy: American soldier. From Uncle Sam.


	3. Had Me At Hello

Tempest

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Germany/America  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Romance/Humor/Adventure  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, interpreting history  
**Status**: Continuation, 3/5  
**Summary**: The first World War presented the chance, but flying was what brought them together.

**Notes**: I was worried that this wouldn't get posted today because I had to move back to college for senior year, but I amazed even myself by completing everything with a ton of time to spare! Thanks to Momo for assuring me that my characterization wasn't completely bogus and Keppiehed for beta reading this ahead of time, which made the process of posting this chapter a lot quicker, too. :)

**Disclaimer**: I dun own Axis Powers Hetalia; wish I did like everyone else. They should put APH in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter 2 –

The sound of a gun discharging not once, but twice, alerted Germany that he'd napped too long. As soon as he woke, he acknowledged that he was in a lot of pain, from his booted toes to the hairs on his head. It was the ache of recovery – a throbbing that indicated the worst was over, but days of laborious healing were close at hand.

He retained the use of his five senses and had partial mobility, so the pain was pushed from Germany's mind as he tried to identify the direction the gunfire had originated from. This wasn't an easy task, as his vision momentarily faded in and out, and the brightness from the noonday sun threatened to overwhelm him.

An expired campfire was closeby, along with-

"Mein gott!" he exclaimed, forgetting the possible threat of an assailant as he identified the totaled remains of his beloved Fokker Dr. I dreidecker. Of what wood pieces remained, the red paint adorning them had been gouged off, and the canvas was torn to shreds. Pieces from the engine and equipment in the cockpit might be salvageable, but it was unlikely.

Germany pushed himself into a sitting position, one hand fixed against his jaw in horror as he beheld the sight. His mind calculated how long it would take to receive a replacement. With his country's dwindling resources in fuel, ammo, material, and manpower, it would be some time. He'd be better off commandeering an Albatros.

The sound of twigs snapping underfoot caused him to redirect his attention to the source of the noise. Whomever was coming made no secret of it. The leaves crunched and the heavy footsteps marked an approach and the identity was soon revealed to be that of the American fighter pilot he'd confronted. Two rabbits were clutched in his right hand and Germany's pistol in his left. He recognized it as he would any part of himself, but Germany rigidly checked his holster regardless, unsurprised to find it empty.

"Oh, you're finally-"

"I will tell you nothing!" Germany declared forthrightly, straightening his back despite the protests of his spine. "I may be your prisoner and at your mercy, but I won't disclose vital information – not even under extreme torture!"

He was panting by the end of his declaration, determined and ready to face whatever foul deeds awaited him, but the Allied soldier simply frowned. Germany took that to mean his captor was unimpressed, or thought him bluffing.

"No matter what cruelty you may bestow upon me, I won't divulge the secrets of my homeland; not for anything! I would rather perish than allow the enemy to know what I know. It would be wise for you to retreat – my squadron is no doubt scouting for me as we speak and could arrive any moment."

"It's been a day already. I think I'm okay for a little while longer," the American said, his announcement startling Germany. _Where were his men?_ "And what are you talking about, torture? Boy, you're kind of eccentric, aren't you?"

"So you intend on killing me without honor, then," Germany concluded, eyeing his gun that was still in the other man's grasp. "Very well, make it quick. I hope the Victoria Cross that England will no doubt grant you for disposing of me keeps your cot warm at night."

The enemy fighter pilot gave him a bewildered expression that changed to alarm when he trailed Germany's gaze to the weapon he held. He tossed the dead animals to the ground and waved the pistol around, causing Germany to tense in anticipation.

"You nuts? If I wanted to make curtains out of you, I wouldn't have bothered treating your wounds, much less hunt for two."

"…What?"

"I'm not going to kill you."

"…_What?_"

"I. Am not. Going to. Kill. You," the flier reiterated, slow and low, as many individuals are prone to speaking to someone of a foreign country when language barriers are present, as if a change in speed or tone would solve the issue.

If his predicament wasn't so precarious, Germany would have cold-cocked him in the nose.

"Why _not?_" he clarified.

Germany wasn't asking in protest, but in confusion. Anyone else by this point in the war would have offed him with no remorse. He held no illusions that he was a prime target due to his reputation and skill, and whomever shot him down would be well set for the remainder of the conflict.

"That'd be unsporting of me, don't you think? Wounded and out of your triplane… That's not how it's supposed to go," he said, in a voice that suggested the point should be obvious. "Heroes fight fair-and-square."

"So…you will not be torturing me?" Germany asked, wanting to be sure. "And you will not be shooting me?"

"Nope."

"Then what _will _you do?"

"Right now, I'm thinking supper and introductions are in order," the man said, and held out a gloved hand. "I'm The United States of America. That's kind of a mouthful, so just America or U.S.A. are dandy."

The other man's reputation had preceded him, for Germany had heard much about the American in passing and had visited his lands in the past, but they had never been properly introduced; they had been too busy with one happenstance or another to get acquainted. During the duration of this war, he had already heard the man's name mentioned in April of 1917 – though as early as 1916, and Germany suspected the pilot was well aware of who _he_ was – but still, the formality was appreciated. He returned the gesture, giving a firm handshake that was shy of being overpowered by the other man's grip.

"German Empire, Commanding Officer of the Jasta eleven fleet," he said, receiving an expectant look that had him clear his throat awkwardly. "Ah, Germany or Baron, if you insist."

"Great! Now how do you like your rabbit cooked? I make a mean Bar-B-Que, but I'm going to have to improvise."

"No preference?" Germany ventured, not sure how to take the offer, and slumped against a nearby fallen log to ease his sore muscles.

Let the enemy fighter pilot busy himself with preparing the meat, he thought; he wanted to rest, not that he would allow himself to drop his guard. He watched the other man rekindle and light the campfire and set up the rabbit on makeshift skewers, oblivious that his hand had absently risen to rub at his head wounds. The nausea and post-flight symptoms lingered far past the usual length, and a headache was but one of the issues adding to his distress.

His shoulders bunched almost to his ears as America joined him, plopping down against the log and nudging it.

"Here," he said, offering him a pack of cigarettes with one stick already poking out of the four remaining in the carton. At his hesitation, America added, "They're French-made. Not as perfect as the ones I'm used to back home, but I hear you guys here are enamored of them. Come on, it'll take the edge off."

It was too enticing to ignore, and he appreciatively took the smoke and lit it using the lighter he kept on his person. Too much time had passed since he'd had some from across the border. America took one for himself, and before he could pull a match to start it, Germany used his lighter to do the honors.

"Thanks," he mumbled around the cigarette, glancing at their meal to ensure that it hadn't caught aflame, and then looked back at him. "I'll take a gander at your wrappings when we're finished eating, sound good? The one on your forehead wasn't so bad, but there was an older one that might not be faring so well."

"Enlighten me," Germany said, postponing a reply to his inquiry and pausing to puff on his smoke while he formulated his own, "as to why you are so intent on my welfare after the vicious display in the air?"

To his puzzlement, America's eyes turned skyward as he smiled. He didn't even remove his cigarette, lips managing to curl around it and still reveal a couple teeth. Germany wondered what he saw up there that was so fascinating, because he felt that America's reasons were vastly different than his own.

"What's your count?"

"Sixteen B.E.2's, thirteen F.E.2's, eight Sopwith Camels-"

"Total them for me."

"Eighty confirmed kills altogether."

"Then there you go!"

The matter was plain to him, but his lack of an explanation boggled Germany further.

"Revenge? Is that it?"

"_No_," the man said, exhaling a large plume of smoke in exasperation. "That's not my style, see? I'm after the best, and as things stand, you _are_ the best. I'd have staved off finding you if I'd known you were still sporting a hole in the head, though. No glory in beating you at your worst, but this way I can make sure you're all better the next time we cross paths! Don't worry, I trained to be in an ambulance group. No finer healing hands than mine."

Germany searched his eyes as he spoke of his intentions and could detect no lies. Not for the first time, he wished there was a manual that went along with this United States of America, who remained an enigma despite his many words. He couldn't figure out if America was truly that simpleminded or if there was a deeper meaning he was missing. America stared back when he was finished speaking, perhaps letting him search or searching for something in return, but whichever it was, the moment was not prolonged.

"Oh! Food's done. Hope you're hungry, because I'm _starving_. I've eaten hamburgers bigger than this state side, but it'll have to do."

Despite what America proclaimed about the levels of his hunger, he gave Germany the larger of the two hares and ate his without added complaint, leaving them little chance to talk until both their mouths were no longer full.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Notes**:

(1) German 101: Mein gott = my god.

(2) The Albatros-Flugzeugwerke was a WWI German aircraft manufacturer that made several different models, some of which Manfred von Richthofen flew. In fact, the Albatros Serial No. 789/16 was the first aircraft he painted red, and he earned most of his kills in them.

(3) Germany spread misinformation concerning the British, in which they were offering an automatic Victoria Cross, the highest British military honor, to any allies who shot down Manfred von Richthofen.

(4) In April, 1917 the United States of America officially entered WWI.

(5) American volunteers were allowed to join the French Foreign Legion in the spring of 1916.

(6) Jasta 11, short for Jagdstaffel 11 (No. 11 Fighter Squadron) was given command to Manfred von Richthofen, which was then incorporated into Jagdgeschwader 1, along with Jasta units 4, 6 and 10. I'm unclear if this is fact, but I've heard Jasta 11 and Jagdgeschwader 1 used interchangeably to describe the unit, despite the combination of three others.

(7) At the end of his career, Manfred von Richthofen had a documented score of 80 downed enemy aircraft, the highest of _any_ flying ace in the war.

(8) American flying ace Frederick Libby first served in an ambulance group in 1916 before joining the Royal Flying Corps.


	4. Perchance to Dream

Tempest

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Germany/America  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Romance/Humor/Adventure  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, interpreting history  
**Status**: Continuation, 4/5  
**Summary**: The first World War presented the chance, but flying was what brought them together.

**Notes**: Chapter four is by far my most cherished, though I like to think all of them are worth loving. ;) This particular installment holds a special place in my heart, though, because one of the parts is the first I ever conceived for this story. Then later, it sort of spiraled into this whole thing , hah hah. As before, thanks to Momo and Keppiehed for doing their part to make this story that much more epic.

**Disclaimer**: I dun own Axis Powers Hetalia; wish I did like everyone else. They should put APH in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter 3 –

As his bandages were removed, Germany could feel his skin underneath breathe, which was both a pleasure and a pain. The alleviated pressure from the stained wraps was a relief, but the prickle of wounds was a trial. At the same time, having America so close, scrutinizing his face, was discomfiting for him to endure. He was talented and professional, true to his word, but that only alleviated _some_ of Germany's concerns.

"How is it?"

"Aside from being bruised black and blue, the cut on your forehead sealed like I thought it would. The older one… It's being stubborn. I'm going to flush it out with clean water and then re-wrap it, and that should help, but you really need to see a nurse after you return to your camp."

"Affirmative," he acknowledged, wincing as America's bare fingers roamed too close to a sensitive spot.

He grabbed a flask from inside his flight jacket, and for a confused moment Germany thought the man had changed his mind and was going to clean the bullet wound with alcohol, but cool water flowed from the container. America absorbed it with his parachute-turned-rag. He'd somehow torn the toughened material into thin strips with his bare bands and used some for cleaning and set the rest aside to be used as binding. There was nothing to sterilize them, but it was either risk infection from the wound remaining uncovered or take a chance on the fabric not being overly contaminated. The injury was re-covered after the cleaning.

"There you go, pal! Almost good as new."

"Thank you," he said in earnest. He felt the other man's handiwork and approved.

"You should rest up; it's getting late. I'll take the first watch."

Germany considered the suggestion and found the idea of recuperation to be sound. He wasn't sure what America would do depending on who found them first, but he considered it logical that if it happened to be Allied forces he wouldn't be turned in – that'd interfere with future skirmishes that America foresaw the two of them having. He nodded his consent and lay down on his back, staring up at the stars that were beginning to dot the sky. By the time he slumbered, his last thought was of noticing America gazing at the sky again, too; Germany was no closer to an answer about what the flier could be seeing or thinking.

* * *

That night, Germany was plagued by a nightmare.

The backdrop was dark, devoid of warmth, its sole occupants he and America. They were standing toe-to-toe, attired in their respective uniforms, sans jackets and shirts. Their right arms were intertwined at the elbows and they were offering a silver cup to one another. Engraved on the objects they grasped were the titles of the planes they flew and the year "1918". Red liquid filled the cups to the brim, and without sampling it, Germany understood that it wasn't wine.

America leaned forward to sip from the offered cup, and Germany was transfixed by his lips touching the metal, how his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. Once America was finished he smiled, teeth revealed and covered in what he'd drunk.

"Not thirsty?" he asked, but his voice sounded strange – distant, soft. "But I thought this was your favorite color."

And America tipped the cup he held out to him, drenching Germany's gloves, pants, and boots – it was seeping into his skin and changing everything to red, red, red…

* * *

He woke with a start, clutching his head as it ached twice as hard as before. His mouth was dry. Germany sat up, gasping for air and was surprised when something fell into his lap. It was enough to startle him into a sort of calm and he looked down to spot an Allied's jacket. He grabbed it by the collar, the inside material very warm from what he figured was his body heat; the article must have served as a makeshift blanket for some time.

_But where was its owner?_

Germany gazed at the land nearby, spotting a scuffed pair of boots peeking from the other side of his wrecked airplane. He got to his feet, ignoring the aches and pains that resulted from his hasty movements, and approached America.

"What do you think you are doing? Get away from there!" he demanded, assuming the other man was studying his aircraft for military reasons.

"Why? It's not like I can hurt it anymore than it already is."

"That's not the point," Germany said snappishly. He shoved America away with his shoulder and pressed his back against the left side, effectively setting up a barrier between his enemy and the plane. "If you think for one moment I will stand by and permit you to gather valuable intelligence-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa Herr Grouser – no need to read me the riot act. That's not why I was admiring your aeroplane, trust me," America interrupted, waving his hands in a placating gesture. At Germany's unconvinced glare, he amended, "Well, don't get me wrong…from a mechanical and engineering standpoint I _am_ curious, but I had no intention of spying. I was just…"

When he trailed off, Germany waited for him to finish. He was legitimately interested in what justification he'd use to explain himself. What possible reason could he have but snooping?

"This is the closest an Ally has gotten to your aircraft, right? I mean, this is – _was_ – the legendary Red Knight's aircraft, and I lived to talk about the encounter. Can you blame me for being a little in awe?"

Nervous and somewhat taken aback by the admission, Germany cleared his throat and answered, "Ah, I see."

Even though he wasn't sure if he did.

"Why did you refer to me as that just now?"

"As what?" America asked, taking his question as some sort of permission, and leaned alongside him, their bodies bumping against each other's in the process.

"The Red Knight."

"You don't like it?"

Germany gave it some honest consideration and found that he wasn't offended. He'd been addressed worse; he merely found it peculiar that someone not on his side would use it. He said as much and America laughed, rubbing idly at his cheek.

"Ah, well, yeah… I guess you don't have a lot of fans from my neck of the woods. But, objectively, I can see that you're really loved because you strive to do…knightly stuff. To your people, you're sort of the hero. It has a neater ring to it than the other titles."

There wasn't anything Germany could say to that.

"So, assumption time," America suddenly said, boisterous. "What would you do after the war if you won our dogfight?"

The question took Germany off guard to the degree that he had no words to offer on the subject at first. He was used to planning five, ten steps ahead, but those were the worst-case scenarios and always involved the war continuing. A life beyond combat was not on his agenda.

"Whatever it is…" he started to say, cautious of revealing too much, "I pray that it has nothing to do with building cuckoo clocks. I dislike those obnoxious contraptions."

A dubious stare met him before America released a guffaw and jostled his shoulder with a slap that made Germany wince.

"Hah hah, that's rich! I have a whole list of things I wanna do. I'm thinking of maybe working in Hollywood – putting my flying prowess to good use as a skywriter or barnstormer – or finding work that'll let me continue to build things. Getting into the oil prospecting business might not be so bad, either."

"Anxious to stop playing the champion already?"

The way America reacted to his inquiry was shared among the children who were told to stop believing in Weihnachtsmann because he wasn't real. His eyes grew wide and his chest puffed out as he said, "No way, no how, and don't you forget it! A war can't go on forever, and it's practical to consider the future. A hero never retires!"

"Of course," Germany said, sighing and closing his eyes. "I'm going back to bed now, and I trust you won't dismantle and memorize the designs of what's left of my aeroplane while I'm asleep."

"Oh, right, sure, no problem. Get some rest; the sooner you heal, the sooner we can get back to brass tacks."

He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat that meant acknowledgment, though Germany was unsure what metal stakes had to do with the matter, and returned to the campfire to lie down again. The jacket was ignored and left where he'd dropped it earlier, but he did rest close to the article of clothing; it brushed his back as he settled. Resting his ear on his folded arms, he intended on sleeping facing his plane. The last sight Germany saw was of America taking his glove in-between his teeth to remove it, running his bare fingers along the scratched paint of his Fokker Dr.I dreidecker and stuffing some of the remaining red fabric into his pocket.

* * *

There was a second dream that happened after Germany fell back asleep, though he'd forget the experience when he next woke up.

He was flying in his Fokker, the paint job fresh and spotless, and the fuselage was whole. It was as it was before the wreck and in perfect working order. There were no cares or worries that held him in check as he flew during the sunset.

Another plane disturbed his flight and as he turned to inspect the presence of the newcomer he saw America coming up on his six, but unlike last time there was no machine gunfire or wild aerobatics. His Sopwith Camel moved to one side of Germany's aircraft until wingtips threatened to collide, except they never did.

They were flying toward the dusk, the bright colors doing wonders. This close, he would make out every detail of America's person: the sincerity of his carefree smile, the thrill in his unobstructed eyes as the dying rays turned them iridescent and the way the wind blew in his hair.

The sight was magnificent.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Notes**:

(1) German 101: Herr – Mr., mister and Weihnachtsmann – Christmas Man, aka Santa Claus.

(2) The silver cups referenced are silver trophies Manfred von Richthofen had made to commemorate his first sixty kills, though by 1918 it would have been impossible for them to be made. The country had run out of silver and brass would have been substituted, and he was unwilling to continue the practice for that reason.

(3) Allusion to episode 03 (segment _Not Enough Gold_) of the anime, in which Ludwig was forced to make cuckoo clocks to pay back Francis for reparations demanded after WW1. Even before he was forced to build and sell them, I imagine he found them disruptive, despite their heritage. ;)

(4) The list of professions America provided are examples of what some American flying aces went on to accomplish after the war ended. Specifically, and in order as mentioned: Jacques Swaab – Hollywood film industry, technical advisor; Oliver LeBoutillier – skywriter, barnstormer; William Lambert – engineer, and Frederick Libby – oil prospector.

(5) American flying ace William Lambert's favorite possession was a piece of red canvas taken from Manfred von Richthofen's famous airplane. I thought it'd be sweet if Alfred had the same souvenir. c:


	5. Touch and Go

Tempest

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Germany/America  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Romance/Humor/Adventure  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, interpreting history  
**Status**: Continuation, 5/5, complete  
**Summary**: The first World War presented the chance, but flying was what brought them together.

**Notes**: At last, the final chapter. I'm still not pleased with the ending, but for now this will do. I think it's also worth noting that I never missed posting on a Sunday - gasp!

So thanks for hanging out until the ending, folks. And in case some of my readers already _don't_ know, a thank you goes out to Momo and Keppiehed for being there for me when I needed them! With their help, this story was able to be posted and enjoyed, instead of rotting on my HD in a sorry state.

**Disclaimer**: I dun own Axis Powers Hetalia; wish I did like everyone else. They should put APH in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter 4 –

That autumn morning was misty and cool, but for the most part Germany didn't mind. Only his upper portion suffered the weather's effects, as the warmth had settled around his midsection and staved off the worst of the chill. He leant back against the source of heat, but not too close, his tired mind assuming the blazing campfire was the reason for his comfort.

Dozing for a short period, he strove to catch some extra sleep. As hard as he tried, however, a niggling observation at the far reaches of his mind irked him about the situation, forcing him to ponder what was happening. He'd slept in the wrong position to meet the flames, as he initially expected. Maybe he was using America's jacket after all? Reaching behind him without opening his eyes, he felt for the article of clothing and, in turn, an answer to his musings.

What he touched was no coat.

Now acutely aware, Germany's hand stayed still on the soft but solid surface he touched, then tentatively trailed downward – over a smooth curve that he squeezed. The mound jumped, causing him to crane his neck and confirm what he'd dreaded.

"Well, good morning to you, too."

Germany stared into America's face in growing horror as it dawned that he was touching the man's-

"I'm not opposed to the attention, but isn't it a bit early for that, or is this a European thing?"

His _hand_ was _touching _the man's-

"You haven't even bought me flowers yet, I'll have you know."

_His hand was touching the man's-_

With a jerk, he released the American's rear and rolled away, his fingers tingling past his gloves and he had to resist waving them around to distill the odd sensation. At a distance of two arm's lengths, Germany sat up and glowered at the fighter pilot positioned across from him, who was taking the events of the last couple of minutes far too serenely.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Why are _you_ upset? I was the one who was frisk-"

"Were you sleeping on the job? If you were tired, you should have woken me up! I'm not an invalid; I can keep watch as well as you."

"I was going to, but you looked so tuckered out that I couldn't bring myself to disturb you. After seeing the way you handle an aeroplane, I'd _never_ claim you couldn't handle something."

The sudden flattery gave Germany pause, but he remained unsettled by the sleeping arrangements.

"Then, why…?"

"I was cold and wanted to wear my jacket, but that would have left _you_ cold, so, uh…" America at last faltered. "And the fire! We ran out of kindling and I didn't want to leave you unprotected."

"I suppose that makes sense."

"Wonderful! So how about breakfast?"

Germany was interested as well, now that the topic was mentioned.

"Alright. Shall I?"

"Ah, I sort of used the rest of your bullets during the last hunt. Sorry! I hope you don't mind." Two days ago, Germany might have. Such a waste wouldn't have been tolerated. "I have my Colt, but there're three shots in the chamber. I'll have to make them count."

"Nonsense. I'm an excellent marksman. I can get us the provisions," he insisted, and held his hand out expectantly for the weapon.

"Are you sure?"

"A gun is a gun. I am sure."

America hesitated, giving him a judging look, but relinquished the weapon without further protest. Germany checked that there was indeed ammunition loaded and tested the weight in his hands before setting off a short distance in search for food. He found some game and his first shot missed by a narrow margin, but they ate well that morning on two large fowl that had been hit straight through. Germany felt a small bit of pride when America whistled in appreciation at the sight of the birds he offered.

* * *

Collectively, they sensed that their time together was growing short. A search party was sure to find the crash site, but neither Germany nor America chose to comment on the impending end to their chance meeting. They were out of America's cigarettes, and he offered chocolate in its stead to Germany, who took a few bites before offering it back to him. The two of them shared and passed it back and forth.

"Why red?" the American asked out of nowhere, but the non sequitur didn't confuse Germany. "Why not green or blue? Why paint yourself a target?"

"Red is distinct," he began to explain, accepting the bar of food when it was his turn again. "With that color, my opponents will spot me when it is too late. They will be _scared._"

America was silent after that, his fingers almost too lax to grip the dessert when Germany's turn was finished. He took a large chomp from the side when his thoughts seemed to gather.

"Imposing fear on the battlefield doesn't sound like you."

"I was not myself when I made the decision," Germany revealed, regretting the admission. He hurried to change the subject. "How can you claim to know me when we haven't previously met?"

"You'd be surprised what someone can learn about a person in a few days."

Germany wasn't sure he believed that, but perhaps it was due to the fact that he didn't feel as if he could say the same. Typically, he was a talented judge of character – it came with his natural-born tactical abilities – but the last few days had made him reconsider and reevaluate. The war had raged an awfully long time, and the German's view on matters had altered more than once. What America said may not be as improbable as he'd considered.

"You are a peculiar man," he stated, waving off the last bits of chocolate. There was too little for him to bother with, and it belonged to America; he deserved to enjoy the last of the 'meal'.

Then the distinct sound of Mercedes engines echoing in the distance put both individuals on the alert. A group of airplanes was approaching fast and virtually within visibility range. They hurried to their feet, Germany scanning the skies until America took his hand, palm-to-palm in a firm handshake.

"Promise me you'll take good care of yourself. No dying in a dogfight that isn't ours, okay?"

"I promise not to die if you don't," Germany vowed, omitting anything that involved them meeting in the air. At some point during the time spent in each other's company, he'd stopped thinking of them as enemies.

"Deal. It was nice getting acquainted. I hope we see one another soon."

Germany released their hands and gave the other pilot's shoulder a gentle shove into the trees and bushes, where he would be out of sight and could escape.

"I don't," he honestly admitted. When next they met, they'd be adversaries and the outcome could only end but one way.

"Yeah," America said, eyes softening behind his lenses and indicating that maybe he understood what Germany meant, "but…"

"Go, you haven't much time." The German turned his back and never took a second look at him, walking briskly to lean on his plane; like that, it was finished. That's what he tried to convince himself.

He waved his arm at the four German aircraft to garner their attention. All of them landed in the open field near his position, and he gathered up what remained of his flight gear. His brother was among the pilots and he was the first to leap out of his ride, running full tilt to greet him.

"Brüder! Hey, West – you look like shit, you know that?"

"I can't imagine why," Germany said, an edge entering his tone at the welcome. "Report?"

"Awesome story; during our search and rescue mission – that I devised, by the way, you can thank me later – we kept running into enemy patrols. Cocky asshats think they can take an afternoon stroll though _our_ skies," Prussia explained, pulling Germany along to the line of aircraft. "But don't worry, none of them will repeat the mistake. I saw to that."

"I see. You've been busy, then?"

"Pshaw, yeah. As if I'd leave you alone! So what's your side?"

"American fighter pilot. Lucky shot, but…I properly disposed of him."

"Tch, tough break. Haven't I taught you better than to be taken off guard by those Yanks?" he asked and gave Germany a calculating look.

"It won't happen again."

"Yeah, yeah, see that it doesn't. It'd be embarrassing if I had to save your butt. Now come on, you can borrow an Alabtros. It's why we were flying this formation, in case we found you. We can send some grunt to salvage your Fokker when we get back."

Prussia didn't question him further on the subject, thankfully, and Germany was relieved that he wouldn't have to concoct a more elaborate lie.

One of the fliers had already transferred to observe in a two-man craft, allowing him a solo unit that had been painted in his colors, except for a splash of yellow. No aircraft in his unit was ever completely red, save his personal plane. There was some coordination involved in firing up everyone's engines, but it wasn't long until they were back in the clouds. The fog had cleared and the temp settled, although it was difficult to discern with the constant chill from the wind at high altitudes.

On the return flight to their base of operations, truth to Prussia's tales of invaders was revealed. Germany had thought it an exaggeration, but there were troops incoming via flight. Checking his controls, he saw that there was half a tank of ersatz oil that'd make for a worthwhile performance, and his head wasn't detrimentally impeding him. That was all it took to convince him to engage the fighter pilots, joining his men and brother – who was the first to lay waste with his machine guns.

Germany concentrated on one particular plane that was circling between territories, tilting his airplane into a steep dive because he didn't want to lose his surprise advantage. The move was too late and too low to have the desired effect. A rapid chase ensued, with Germany trailing close to the Allied aircraft. In a rare lapse of judgment, he kept near to the ground instead of breaking off course to reclaim higher air space. A string of gunfire came from the direction of his tail and Germany jerked around to see that he was the target.

_Where did he come from?_ Germany thought, stuck in the middle of two dogfights. The pilot chasing him was practiced, kind of like-

He double-checked, taking note of blond hair and glasses. But it couldn't be America. The other man's eyes were the wrong shade, his clothes a wooly, tan jacket, not a dark brown. He was flying under a Canadian flag for the Royal Air Force in a Sopwith Camel. On foot, America couldn't have reached the border in time to receive a replacement plane. Differences aside, this pilot and America could've posed as twins.

More bullets – now from Australian anti-aircraft weapons on the ground – were homed in on him and pinging off the body of his plane. Germany struggled to avoid both enemy attackers, spurred on by adrenalin, survival instincts and…_that_ promise. He refused to fall here, not like this. Germany would keep his word.

Pulling off to the side, spiraling past rival fire, he prepared to give this dogfight all he had to give.

-Fin-

**A/N**: I left the conclusion open-ended because of the discrepancy of who may have landed the killing blow and to leave it to the reader's imagination of whether or not Ludwig shared the same fate as Manfred von Richthofen.

**Notes**:

(1) German 101: Brüder – brother.

(2) The M1911 was standard issued to American soldiers between 1911-1985, though it's still in use today. American flying ace Frank Luke Jr. had a Colt Model 1911 that he used to retaliate against German forces.

(3) The exchange between Alfred and Ludwig concerning the latter's choice of aircraft color reflects a scene from the 2008 The Red Baron movie, where the actor playing Manfred von Richthofen is grieving and bitter over the death of one of his close comrades. He demands that his plane be repainted completely red, despite the risks involved, to inspire fear in the enemy. Though the movie is considered largely fictitious, I thought I'd make some references, and watched the dogfights for inspiration.

(4) The observer is the person in two-man aircrafts who controlled the guns, either stationed in front (so the bullets would go past the propellers) or the back, depending on the model in question.

(5) On April 21, 1918 Manfred von Richthofen was killed in combat. There is debate on who fired the fatal blow, though Canadian flying ace Roy Brown – who Matthew is intended to mirror in this story – is still credited with the kill.


End file.
